Cruel (The Buck Boys Heroes 2)

“Got it.” I take her in my arms for a hug. “I won’t be more than an hour. I’ll meet my informant, find out what he has for me, and pick us up a pint of ice cream on my way home.”

“Mint chocolate chip?” She asks with a perk of one of her perfectly arched eyebrows.

“Done.” I move to kiss her cheek. “Have fun watching the Duke get downright dirty.”

“He does not,” she scoffs. “Or he won’t in the episode I’m about to watch. It’s the third of this season.”

“I’m on the sixth,” I admit. “The third and the fourth are H.O.T., and for the record, his full-frontal nude scene is spectacular.”

She looks toward the television. “Go do what you need to do, Juliet. I have a show to watch.”

Chapter Two

Juliet

I step out of an Uber on Madison Avenue. I would have taken the subway, but my sister’s mini self-defense course ate up a bit of my time. That, along with a conversation I had with one of the doormen of our building, set me back by fifteen minutes.

Ricky, the doorman, had a host of questions for me about an online article I wrote two weeks ago. He’s always telling me he’s my number one fan. I take pride in my work, even if this job isn’t my ultimate end goal. It’s a step up the ladder toward the future I desperately want.

I spot the man I’m meeting right away.

He insists that I refer to him as my informant, but I see him as a helpful aid in my pursuit of the meat and bones of the stories I’m assigned.

“Juliet!” he yells my name while waving a hand in my direction.

For an informant, there is nothing discreet about Bradley Degati.

A waft of purple hair sits atop the middle of his head. His brown eyes are behind a pair of orange-rimmed eyeglasses, and the suits he wears are never the standard navy blue or black. Today, it’s powder blue with a red vest. His pants are always hemmed a few inches too short, so that he can show off his colorful socks.

“Hey, Brad.” I smile as I approach him.

He gives me a big bear hug. “You’re looking fantastic tonight.”

I spin in a circle on the crowded sidewalk. “Thank you. I’m liking your look too.”

“This little number,” he says, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. “Trudy found this in a vintage store. I swear I married the greatest stylist on this continent.”

I have to agree with him.

Trudy Degati’s personality and presence are just as infectious as her husband’s.

“Do you have something good for me?” I ask with hope.

I’ve been chasing a big story all week, and when I shared those details with Brad, he told me he’d do his best to help me out. When he called me an hour ago to ask me to meet him outside of a restaurant, I knew that it had to be good news.

“Let’s take this around the corner,” he suggests.

I go along for the walk because it’s become part of our routine. When we do the exchange of money for information, Brad prefers that it be on a side street or in a mostly-empty café.

We step into a narrow alleyway between two brick buildings.

His hand dives into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He tugs out a flash drive. “Pictures! I have pictures!”

“You don’t,” I say in disbelief. “How? When?”

“I do.” He laughs. “Someone took the pictures this morning at their studio.”

Someone is code for Trudy.

Brad has never come right out and admitted it, but the trail to his source isn’t long and winding. His wife works with some of the biggest names in entertainment, and many social media influencers, including a particular one who is rumored to be on the cusp of an engagement with her recently retired NFL superstar boyfriend.

“You’re telling me you have pictures of Corla Berletti’s engagement ring?” I lower my voice. “Actual pictures of the ring?”

“Fucking amazing pictures of the ring, if I do say so myself.” He brushes a hand over his shoulder. “I’m talking high definition. You can almost feel the weight of all ten carats when you look at the photos.”

My jaw drops. “Ten carats?”

“Princess cut, and a white gold band engraved with his initials. Corla might have taken the ring off briefly this morning when she was trying on a wool dress. I’m not confirming that mind you, but the possibility exists. So you’re getting pictures of the ring on and off her finger. You’re welcome.”

I plant both hands on Brad’s shoulders, push up to the tiptoes of my boots, and kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

Stepping back, I slip the strap of my purse over my head so I can dig out the money I brought with me.

“Did your sister insist you tie yourself up in the strap of that bag?” Brad chuckles.